The yellow finch has come back to visit our back yard feeder and brought his mate. At least, I think they are a couple since they seem to be compatible as they dine. Considerate of our pleasure, they have come to call during our dinner hour so that we can admire them— along with the cardinal family that lodges in our holly tree and my favorite, the perky chickadee.
Perches on a swaying branch
To say ‘good morning.’
The butterflies will be back soon, monarchs striking in orange and black, debonair swallowtails in formal attire, and those tiny whites and yellows who will dance around the lavender.
From such small things come my epiphanies. I have a dear friend who believes that angels interact with us, and though I have had no celestial visitations, my very ordinary life has also felt the brush of wings.
That bumblebee, for instance, with the pollen-dusted legs—I watch one as it hovers about a rosebud on the new red climber. Darkest red, the bud is unfurling slowly, taking its time. The bee is in no hurry, either, for the garden is full of spring flowers.
Then there is the drift of petals from the clematis vine. Pure white are these flower-wings, each a miracle of form and balance. The clematis is even whiter today because the sky is slightly overcast. Translucent gray above—and below, at my feet spreads the dusty miller, an early ladybird napping amongst the folds of a long, silvered leaf.
Hiding from the world…
Rocked in a silver cradle
Wings folded, at rest.
The mockingbird has started to sing by the mailbox. He is an industrious fellow who makes his rounds each morning, afternoon and evening, singing at top volume to make sure we know who rules the world. I have great affection for this noisy potentate for when I wake in the dusk just before dawn, he is singing under my window as if to offer me the gift of a new day. Because the mockingbird welcomes each dawn, I do, also.
In the mailbox where the mockingbird now struts his stiff lies a letter I have just written to an old friend. Our letters and e-mails often cross, and we laugh about ESP, but it really is not a joke. This connection of minds is as much as treasure as are the jewel colors of the finches and cardinals and the graceful dance between bee and flower. It is an understanding forged between women through long, unhurried years, a testament to shared joys and sorrows and growth.
These—garden, birdsong, friendship—are to me no less wondrous because they do not come on angel’s wings.